


hold on fast to you

by piratesails



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Enchanted Forest, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Princess!Emma, blacksmith!killian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 12:12:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6469618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piratesails/pseuds/piratesails
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She didn't choose Killian Jones as her friend, he just kind of happened. She didn't choose to like him either, but maybe in between the visits to his shop and the nights they spend laughing at each other's expense, that one was inevitable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hold on fast to you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [katana_fleet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katana_fleet/gifts).



“You really shouldn’t be doing this,” Emma’s voice is a hissed whisper, and though quiet, still too loud for the stillness of the middle of the night. She leans out her window an inch more, eyes now adjusted to the darkness. The mop of dark hair is easily discernable, and then there’s the way he stops climbing to look up at her and wink in that ridiculous way she hates. (And by _hates_ , she means  _really, really likes_.)

“Afraid I’ll fall, Princess?” He says it between a grunt as he pulls himself up further, “Didn’t think you cared for me that much.”

Emma scoffs, “Someone’s going to see you and it’ll be your head on the guillotine.”

His hands find their place on her windowsill and he gives himself a final heave, immediately coming nose to nose with her. He cocks his head with a smirk, “And there’s that care and concern again.”

“Don’t be an ass,” she mumbles, grabbing his upper arms to help him into her bedchamber. His booted feet land onto the floor with a muted thud and he bends down to dust off his trousers.

“Tsk, what would your mother say if she heard your foul tongue?”

“What would my mother say if she saw a strange man in my chamber this close to dawn?” Her mother doesn’t know of Killian. Only some of the servants do, and a few of the guards.

“‘My, Emma, you certainly keep some handsome company’,” Killian drawls in a high pitched tone which she assumes is his best imitation of the Queen.

She rolls her eyes but she can’t help the smile on her face. Her gaze follows him as he unceremoniously drops down on her bed, “And what would your brother say?”

He visibly cringes at that and sits back up to regard her, “Why must you always bring Liam into this?” He huffs indignantly and squares his shoulders, “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“Killian.”

“Come on, love, I barely get to see you these days. It isn’t my fault I have to resort to such drastic measures to get a word in with the future Queen of Misthaven.” Emma softens a little at the sincerity in his voice. He pats the place next to him on the edge of her bed in invitation, “Won’t you indulge your best friend?”

She’s known Killian Jones for nearly a year now, having accidentally stumbled into his shop in an effort to hide from the castle guards when she was strolling through the square. It wasn’t her proudest moment when she’d nearly knocked the hammer out of his hands by bumping into him. Also not her proudest moment: lying to him about who she was.

She blames his unexpectedly blue eyes on that one.

It took a few months worth of visits before she finally cracked and told him she was the future Queen. She’d fidgeted with the sleeves of her dress and stumbled over her words all through the confession, but he’d taken it far better than she expected. It didn’t seem to bother him at all that she lied, or that she was the Princess. She’s certain that day only made their bond stronger.

Growing up as a Princess meant that people treated her like an authority, like someone they had to be careful around lest they be beheaded, or something. But Killian remains the same even now. He climbs through her window and sasses her to the point where she gets mad. He’s annoying but he’s her person; she’s never had one of those before.

She relents, dragging her feet over to him. “If my mother finds out, I’m putting all the blame on you.”

“Duly noted,” he grins.

-/-

The afternoon heat leaves Killian tired, weariness settling in his bones. His work isn’t too taxing, it’s everything he’s used to, everything he enjoys doing. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t begin to take a toll on him by the end of the week. He shakes his head - Liam and his bloody tendency to take on one ship repair after another without any pause.

He takes a few minutes to organize his tools, primarily just running his hands through his dampening hair.

“Would you like some sustenance, brother?” Liam’s hand pops into his line of vision with a flask dangling from it.

Killian grabs it wordlessly and takes a pull from it. “I’m almost finished with this,” he murmurs with a nod to the bench, handing the rum back to Liam. “And then I’ll be heading down to the docks.” His attempt at nonchalance falls through the minute his eyes meet Liam’s mischievous ones, one of his brother’s eyebrows arched high on his forehead. He’d groan but he doesn’t want to give himself up that easily. Of course Liam would know he plans to meet Emma there.

“When exactly are you going to tell the fair Princess that you’re head over heels about her, hm?”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I? Or are you?” Liam braces his forearms on the tools table, smirk evident on his face.

“You are,” he deadpans, turning back towards his workbench.

“Oh, little brother, you have so much to learn of love,” Liam claps him on the back.

“ _Younger_ brother,” Killian corrects automatically before scoffing, “and that’s a rich sentiment coming from the likes of you. When was the last time a woman even spoke to you, then?”

It’s the back of his head that Liam claps this time. “You git,” he mutters.

“Oi, I’m working here,” he can’t help the chuckle that escapes him as he says it. Some days he becomes intensely aware of how much gratitude he holds for his arse of a brother; the irritation directed towards him is no match for the love he feels. If not for Liam, he would have been roaming the streets homeless as a little boy, perhaps he may not even have lived to see this age.

“About time,” Liam laughs, too. Killian thinks he’s taken the worst of it for the day as they both retreat to silence and concentrate on their work, the clanging of tools being the only sounds filling the space.

Once he wraps up his work, he packs his tools into the corner shelf and buttons up his vest before making his way towards the door. Just before he steps out, he hears Liam holler, “Tell her you love her!”

This time he does groan, picking up a dirty rag lying on the floor and turning around to chuck it at his brother. Liam ducks, his laughter following Killian out the door.

It doesn’t take him too long to get to the docks, and if you were to ask him if he’d hurried his pace in anticipation of seeing the Princess, he would have denied it flat out. He denies a lot of things when it comes to Emma; his feelings, the most prominent of those.

He stops when he sees her, sitting by the mostly secluded part of the bay, her horse tied to the wooden post farther back. He’s sure if he looks around, he’d find one or two men that are no doubt of her parents’ employ to protect her. Killian doesn’t pay any of it much mind, watching instead how Emma tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and tips her head a bit back as if letting the sun warm her skin. Only she could make the bloody heat of this afternoon feel like it was healing him.

“Afternoon, Princess,” he sweeps into a bow as he reaches her.

She chuckles under her breath, “Afternoon, sir.” She may call him an _ass_ in the privacy of her bedchamber, but she needs to maintain propriety here, in the public eye where her future subjects can pick apart her every move. It must be exhausting, he thinks, maintaining so many personas.

“And how are you faring today?”

“Very well, thank you.”

He takes a seat next to her, keeping a few inches between them. It’s already difficult enough to not reach for her when their shoulder brush as they sit together in his shop alone. He breaks the piece of bread he’d picked up on the way and gives her a large half.

They begin idle conversation eventually, and he revels in her laughter as he regards a tale of Liam when he was last drunk. He’s thoroughly content like this, sitting with Emma, her presence enough to keep a smile on his face. It’s hard to keep his brother’s yell out of his mind but he attempts his best. He watches her smile stretch, dimples denting her cheeks and wonders if the whole world can plainly see that he does, indeed, love her.

-/-

Being a Princess is one thing. Being the future Queen is something else entirely.

There’s the constant studying, the lessons of propriety and politics and geography that make her grind her teeth the longer she sits through them, the dance rehearsals, and the _damn_ expectations. She doesn’t hate it, but some days it’s just _a lot_.

She’d rather be out improving her sparring or poking fun at Killian at his shop than being literally poked with tiny needles as Marian, her lady maid, attempts to fit her for her most recent ball gown. She already has two she’s never worn, she doesn’t understand why she needs to get a new one made.

That question, though, is answered soon enough when her mother gracefully walks into the fitting room, politely asking the servants to clear the room. That should be Emma’s first warning but she’s too busy wrestling with the too tight belt around her waist to notice.

The Queen clears her throat and Emma looks up at her.

“So, this ball,” her mother begins. And this should be her second warning, her mother’s far too breezy tone that isn’t as casual as it’s supposed to be. But Emma’s already missed the first warning so she can’t quite catch the second one until the words leave her mother’s mouth. “There’s a Prince coming to see you, in hopes to court you.”

The grin on her mother’s face is almost blinding. She’d heard her father speak of how he’d melted at the sight of Snow White’s smile - but right now, she doesn’t feel that warmth her father speaks of, she only feels dread. And a lump in her throat. And a churning in her gut. That thing about it being a lot? Well, it just multiplied itself by ten.

“I- pardon?”

“The Prince from two kingdoms over. I think his name was Walsh?”

“Pardon?” Emma repeats.

The Queen scrunches her brows together and then, “Are you okay, dear?”

Emma shakes her head, trying to wrap her thoughts around the idea. The ball. A Prince. Marriage. The Goddamn belt still digging into her skin. She pulls and pulls at the fabric until she hears a satisfying tear. Her mother winces at the sound. “Yeah, I’m…just a bit caught off guard.”

“You’ve had suitors before,” her mother says. And yeah, she has had suitors before but it’s been a while and the idea doesn’t sit as neatly on her chest as it used to. “You’re nearly 25 now,” she croons with a frown.

Emma nods dumbly as her mother gives her a soft smile.

Make that multiplied by twenty.

-/-

“If you don’t mind me saying, you seem a little vexed today, Your Highness,” Liam cocks his head to the side as he leans against his workbench.

Emma’s picking at the corner of the book in her hands. It’s something she brought from the castle library so she could read here. But, she hasn’t exactly been reading.

“What makes you say that?” She smiles at the elder Jones brother, sliding the book onto her lap.

He shrugs, “You haven’t turned a single page in the time it’s taken me to sharpen this sword.”

“And how were you sharpening the sword if you were looking at me the whole time? Your work ethic could use some help there,” she teases. Although her and Liam aren’t as close as her and Killian, she does enjoy his company and their easy conversation.

Liam laughs, loud and booming and it makes her smile wider. “Perhaps you’re right.” He waits a minute before adding, “I know I’m not Killian but I’m willing to lend a listening ear while he’s out if you so please.”

“I’m not sure what it is, maybe I’m just tired,” she presses her thumb to the spine of the book.

Liam stays quiet for a few moments. “Would you give me the permission to be a tad bold, Princess?” Emma rolls her eyes and nods at him; she’s known him as long as Killian but he still insists being so proper around her. “Could this possibly concern matters of the heart?”

Emma furrows her brows. She’s been bothered by the idea of marriage, sure, but it isn’t something that concerns love, or whatever. It’s just the act of it. Right?

Liam shrugs and turns to his bench again, “Then again, I may be wrong.”

She’s just about to pick her book back up again when Killian enters, a grin on his face when he sees her sitting in the corner of the shop. She grins back without a second thought, stomach jumping at the way his eyes linger on her for a few seconds before he starts speaking to Liam.

Maybe she’s just tired. Or maybe Liam’s right.  

-/-

Prince Walsh is handsome and smart, but the whole time she dances with him, she thinks about Killian. She thinks about how the man in front of her with brown curls and a clean shaven face compares little to the rugged handsomeness of her best friend. Who is, for one, a blacksmith - nowhere near this man’s royal status. And also, her _best friend_. Which isn’t exactly the most convenient thing.

It’s a few hours after her dance, a only half stimulating conversation with Prince Walsh, several nudges from her mother, and a few hurried gulps of her stashed whiskey flask, that she finally manages to slip out of the ballroom. She wraps her cloak around her shoulders and succeeds in avoiding the guards as best she can as she takes the servant’s entrance out of the castle and into the square. She isn’t sure what the time is, only that it must be late because the center of the town is emptier than she’s ever seen it.

Only a small torchlight at the Jones’ blacksmith shop is on but there are no loud sounds from the small cottage. She enters without knocking, because her nerves and her urge to see Killian won’t let her stay still enough to wait for someone to open the door for her.

She walks in to find her best friend sprawled across the torn up settee in the corner of the room, an arm draped over his eyes. As she walks towards him, she notices the dark smudges on his fingers and his tousled hair sticking up at odd angles. Her heart squeezes at the sight. More because of how she’d rather be here with him than with any other man at the ball.

And then because she doesn’t know if he’d rather be here with her than anyone else.

She kneels down so she’s at his eye level and lightly brushes the pad of her thumb over his eyebrow. He groans a little, lowering his arm and fluttering his eyes open. It takes him a second but then he smiles kindly at her, voice rasping out, “Emma?”

“Hey.”

He knits his brows together and then runs his gaze from her eyes down to her waist and then back up. “Your ball-”

“Yeah,” she cuts him off with a shrug, “it got boring.”

“What’s the time, it-,” he cuts himself off with another hurried thought, “did you walk here by yourself?”

Emma just shrugs in response.

His vision clears a bit more and he remains staring at her. She shifts a little under his gaze and then he seems to catch himself because he’s straightening up to a sitting position immediately and reaching out to tug at her arm. “Don’t sit on the floor, love.”

She sits down beside him, their knees knocking together. It sends a bit of warmth all the way up to her shoulders, tugging her lips into a smile.

Killian scrubs a hand over his face, leaving a dark smudge on his cheekbone. He turns to her, “Now, tell me what’s really bothering you.”

On any other day, she’d be happy that he can read her as well as this. But right now, when he’s the reason her thoughts are jumbled, well. She shrugs again, instead. “I hate this dress,” she scowls at the greyish silver ball gown that just barely peeks out of her mundane brown cloak. She has to take her restlessness out on _something_.

“Alright,” he stretches out the end of the word, clicking the ‘t’ as a puzzled punctuation. “I happen to think you make it look rather fetching.”

And there he goes, with his constant flirtations. No wonder her feelings gravitate towards him. How did she not realise this beforehand? She groans, completely improperly, and pushes herself further into her seat.

“Emma? I didn’t mean to upset you,” from the corner of her eyes she sees him frown, clear concern on his face. Which-

He isn’t really helping this whole thing.

But she’s a _Princess_ , for God’s sake. She’s to command armies, take care of a whole kingdom, fight off dragons, probably, she doesn’t know. Princess Emma Nolan of Misthaven will not be brought to her defeat by her damn heart squeezing a little too much in a man’s presence.

She lifts her chin higher and looks at Killian. Her stomach flutters like the traitorous thing it is and she could claw her hair out.

“It’s not- it’s not the dress.”

“Oh?”

“Mom is urging me to get married.”

“Oh.”

He sounds disappointed. Or maybe he’s just tired and she’s simply projecting. She twists her fingers together. “There was this Prince at the ball tonight,” she says meekly and then scrunches up her nose at the thought of him. “All he spoke about was how well furnished his castle was and how ours could be better.”

“Ah,” Killian remarks. He shakes his head a little and smiles tightly at her, “Well, not everyone can carry a riveting conversation like I can, love.”

And isn’t that _just_ the problem? Still, she manages to half smile at him, “That ego of yours just gets bigger and bigger, you know.”

He hums, not taking his eyes off her. And then he exhales, reaching out to place his hand over hers where they rest folded in her lap. His gaze falls there but hers stays trained on the way his jaw clenches. “I promise you, Emma, one day you will find a man that is worthy of your affections, one that will love you like no other.”

It’s the way that her breath catches that makes her send a silent prayer to the heavens that somehow, some day, that very man might be him.

-/-

Killian finds himself in a dilemma.

Often, he’s rather skilled in stressful situations. But not when those situations involve the woman who unknowingly holds his heart in her hands. And specifically not when she’s standing this close to him, drenched in rainwater and wringing her hair out.

The thunder cackles loudly outside but Emma only grins, enjoying the abrupt turn of the weather.

“Storms aren’t meant to be good luck,” he points out to her, squeezing at his own sleeve to rid it from the water its sucked. They’d been at the field when it started, and had run as fast as they could to the nearest shed.

“Do you have to complain about everything?” She muses, her eyes trained on the sky through the window.

Emma had practically begged him to take a day off and keep her company while she surveyed the area for possibilities of new plantations there. He’d questioned why she couldn’t take Leroy or Walter or one of the Queen’s many other adopted brothers that he’d heard so much about from her. Emma had made an intelligible sound then and told him that she was a grown woman who didn’t require someone sent by her parents to shadow her constantly.

Not that Killian is opposed to spending time with Emma. No, quite the opposite. He might be a little wary lately, since she’s a bit more free with how she speaks and how she acts (even freer, if one can imagine) and his feelings only continue to grow. Which Killian realised will lead him to nothing but heartbreak. Especially when her parents are so adamant on her marrying a royal.

(His heart is already starting to crack, because she’s always so close but never close enough.)

He’d decided, as she’d leaned closer to him while walking through the grass, that he would keep his distance from now. This had gone on for too long already and if she didn’t worry about her status, then he might as well. Which is why when the sky opened up and he found himself cornered into a shed with her, well-

You can see how this is a dilemma.

“Not everything, but this most certainly,” he mutters. He bunches up a few tufts of hair in his palm and attempts to dry them. It’s useless so instead he takes a few steps back and shakes his head like a dog would, which more or less does the trick.

“One would think you were raised in a barn,” she snickers, walking up to him.

Compared to her lavish upbringing, he thinks he may as well have been. He frowns as he grabs at the ends of his shirt to find them beyond even the attempt of drying.

She’s in front of him when she tugs at his shirtsleeve and says, “Hey, it’s fine. It’s just a bit of water.” Killian loves water, _that_ isn’t the problem here. The problem is, well, he’s looking right at her. Her smile begins to fade the longer her eyes stay trained on his face and it’s nearly gone when she asks, “What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head and turns it to look out the window. Maybe if he ignores it all, it’ll go away.

Easier said than done when the _it_ seems to be relentless in her pursuit, pulling harder at his sleeve to get his attention. (She always has his attention, she need not even try.) “Killian,” he doesn’t have to look at her to know she’s worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

“The weather seems to be letting up,” he deflects to the best of his abilities, “perhaps we can start our trek back soon, it’ll only-”

“Killian.”

“-take us a short while to get you back-”

“Killian,” she huffs, tugs even harder so he actually stumbles forward. Right into her. Of bloody course.

He finds his face inches away from hers, and his eyes focus on the one droplet of water that makes its slow descent down her cheek, disappearing out of his line of sight once it hits her jawline. He feels her breath on his neck and because he’s a sodding idiot, can’t actually concentrate enough to move back.

(Always close but never close enough.)

Emma leans her face closer to his and he swears he stops breathing. It only takes a staggering second before her lips are on his, gentle and feather-light. Just like her. He pushes himself into it but just barely, feeling the cold on his skin where the tip of her nose presses into his cheek. Her fingers graze his jaw and that’s what snaps him out of it.

He breaks the kiss, still too dazed to move away. “Emma, we can’t.”

“Why not?” She sounds equally dazed and it makes his heart beat faster. To know that he has this effect on her that almost rivals her own on him.

“You’re a Princess, love, and I’m-” He shakes his head.

“You’re a good man.”

“Not good enough for you,” he whispers resolutely, prying himself away from her hands. His chest feels _so_ heavy. He glances at her and it only makes it worse once he sees the crestfallen expression on her face.

“You’re not the one who decides that,” she says after taking in a few breaths. “You don’t get to choose if you’re the best choice for me or not, only I get to do that.”

But Killian remains hesitant. He _isn’t_ good enough for her, he knows this. “We should get going,” he makes his way towards the door and out into the cleared field, seeking some twisted comfort in how she follows him without more argument.

-/-

Emma avoids the town square for weeks, instead throwing herself into her duties for the kingdom. Maybe it’s a little unfair to say she avoids the square; the square didn’t refuse to speak to her as it walked her to the castle, the square didn’t back away from her advances, the square isn’t the one she’s angry and upset at. The square isn’t the one that’s making her feel this ache somewhere in her chest.

Her parents notice, because of course they do. Her father seems to be tiptoeing around her while her mother just shoots her sad looks, like she went out and murdered some villagers, or something. Like she’s disappointed. It eats at Emma all up until her anger finally runs out and she’s just tired, fisting at her bedcovers, staring at the window. All of this feels empty without him; which is stupid, because he’s barely ever filled this space anyway.

She’s not sure whose fault it is. Hers, maybe. His, partially. The universe’s, most prominently.

Emma took her time in the last days to tear through a number of books, cover to cover, that spoke of laws of the kingdom - even discreetly slipping in a question or two to her tutor. Her conclusion is that there is no qualm if a princess marries a commoner. Her issue is that Killian doesn’t want to have anything to do with her, let alone enter a freaking marriage with her.

Emma’s getting ahead of herself. Way, way ahead.

She dials it back a notch and focuses her eyes on the ceiling, focuses back on the fact that she misses her best friend. She’d almost given in and gone to his shop, but she’d caught herself before she could do anything rash. (Kissing him was rash and look at where that got her.) What would she have said to him if she saw him, anyway? She had no idea. She didn’t want to falsely apologise for kissing him - because no matter how big of a rift its caused between them, she doesn’t regret the light push of his lips against hers.

It’s high evening and she’s still contemplating how cold she’d been and how warm she’d turned for those few seconds, her frustration returning to her fisted hands, when Marian all but bursts through her door. Her lady maid grimaces as the door hits against the wall loudly, but then she’s rushing to wear Emma sits on the corner of her bed.

“Marian?” Emma gets up immediately at the woman’s twisted up lips and worried eyes, “Is everything okay? Is Roland alright?”

Marian shakes her head and squeaks out a small, “It’s Killian.”

-/-

By the time she gets to the docks, her heart is beating a frantic mess in her chest and her she grips the reins of her horse just that bit harder so her hands stop shaking. When she no longer has the comfort of that, she takes to bunching them up on the sides of her cloak. She pushes through the crowd, some of the men recognising her and giving her way immediately while the others have their eyes trained forward.

She sees him once she finally makes it to the front, and her breath hitches. It’s Liam and another man that have pulled him out of the water, his brother now pumping at his chest. She stays still, feet refusing to move out of fear. She can’t see him breathing - not from here anyway. There’s a prayer she should be saying, she knows this, but her mind stays blank against her will. Blank, still, afraid.

It’s only when he coughs ( _finally_ ), that a sob wretches out of her. It’s an ugly sound but she doesn’t care, makes her way to him as hurriedly as her weak knees will allow because dear _God_ , she almost lost him. Her best friend, the man who means so much to her, the man she’s come to love. But that-

Emma’s knees hit the ground as she bends over him. “Killian,” it’s shaky at best and oh so weak.

“Love?” His voice is no better, rasping as his lungs still grab for air.

He begins to open his mouth again but she shakes her head, and looks up at the crowd of men. She lifts her a chin and squares her shoulders, projecting her voice like how her mother taught her - with no room for argument, “Don’t just stand there, get him to his shop immediately, then one of you send for the best healer.” The men scurry around, scattering to do as she’d asked. Before they reach Killian, though, she bends down to whisper to him softly, “You’re going to be okay.”

He nods, eyes never straying from hers.

She follows them back to the shop and waits until the healer’s come and gone, and Liam’s outside speaking to him to fully face Killian. He’s laying on the settee, head propped up on the arm while he gulps down some warm soup.

“What the hell were you thinking?” She tries to keep it soft, but the frustration seeps through.

He stops mid gulp and stares at her. He stares at her good and right until she isn’t sure if he’s looking at her or simply looking through her. Killian finishes the last of the soup, bending down to place the bowl on the floor before he clears his throat. “Yes, Emma, it was my fault that I fell into the bloody ocean.” So hostility is what he’s going for. Yeah, that she can manage.

But, he isn’t telling the full truth. “Actually, yeah, it was,” she snaps, stalking closer, “you deliberately went onto that ship even though you know those sailors have it out for you. Why did you do it? To aggravate them? It’s a Navy crew, Killian, you know how stuck up they can be and still, you got it into your idiotic head that it would be a _great_ idea. Let them push you around, so much so that you end up half _dead_ and-” Her voice breaks, and her hands start shaking again. And _God_ , when did she get like this?

She doesn’t know when Killian stands, only that when his arms wrap around her, she presses herself into him further. “It’s okay, love, I’m fine,” he whispers into her hair.

Emma shakes her head, her whole body shivering at the thought of it not being okay. “You were almost gone. Don’t _ever_ do that again.”

He exhales heavily, sending a puff of warm air somewhere near her ear. “The last thing I wanted to do was worry you,” his voice comes out small and she thinks maybe he’s still having a hard time breathing. “In fact, I went there for you.”

She moves back to face him, eyebrows scrunching together so hard that it starts hurting. “What?”

“I had plans to join the Navy, but it appears my past with those sailors puts a dent in that plan.” He isn’t looking at her, fixing his gaze on a point some place near her chin.

It clicks in her mind. _Not good enough for you_. And she’s back to clenching her fingers, creasing up his shirt in the process. She knows why he wanted do it - at least, she thinks she knows -, but she asks him anyway. “Why did you want to join the Navy?”

“I wanted to be good for you,” he says it so quietly that if she wasn’t completely fixed on him, she wouldn’t have heard it.

“You are.” He shakes his head but Emma’s quick to hold his face in her hands. “You _are,_ Killian. You’re too good for me.”

“I can never be a man as noble and brave, like your father or your uncles. Your husband should be like that, Emma, not some blacksmith who can barely afford a fancy coat.”

She keeps his face in place when he tries to move away from her, “I don’t care about that. I don’t care about money or clothes or profession. I love you because of who you are, a stupidly annoying blacksmith who knows his way up and around a castle wall.”

He freezes his fidgeting and Emma’s thumb swipes slowly at his cheekbone. “You…,” he blinks and then unsurely prompts, “say it again?”

“I love you.”

It takes him a few painstaking seconds to register her words and then he surges forward to capture her lips. She lets out a muffled yelp of surprise but he immediately holds her waist to keep her steady. Her mouth opens easily under his and she isn’t sure if it’s he who melts into her or the other way around.

“I love you, Emma,” he mumbles against her lips when he pulls back to take a breath. He presses a soft kiss at the corner of her mouth, “I have loved you for months on end. I just never thought I’d ever be worth-”

“Ssh,” she silences him before kissing him chastely. “You need to accept yourself for the kind and wonderful man you are,” she says sternly, “because I have.”

He nudges his nose against hers, finally letting his lips lift up in a small smile. “Just because you’re royalty doesn’t mean you get to be so bossy.”

Emma’s huff of laughter is shaky with the emotions clogging up her throat. And she wants to remind him that come the time, he’ll be royalty, too, that he’ll be a part of the family name just as much as her. But, she has no inclination to discuss matters of political standing right now. She presses her nose into his cheek and he pulls her closer; she’s content like this right here.


End file.
